


Panem et Circenses

by Fox_In_A_Box



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: (In The Form Of Riddles), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gratuitous Greco-Roman Analogies, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), One Shot, Season/Series 04, Terrible People in Love, Uneasy Allies To Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:55:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25886170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_In_A_Box/pseuds/Fox_In_A_Box
Summary: After joining forces to chase Sofia Falcone out of Gotham, the Penguin and the Riddler have decided to put their past mistakes behind them and strike an uneasy truce. Now the rightful king of the Narrows, Riddler invites Penguin to a special show at the Riddle Factory. Despite his wariness, Oswald knows he can't refuse.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 9
Kudos: 83





	Panem et Circenses

**Author's Note:**

> Did I write this as a fuck you to Ed's nonsensical betrayal of Oswald at the end of S4? Yes. Am I still bitter about the whole Ed/Lee arc because it didn't do justice to either of them? Yes. Did this turn out to be longer than I had planned? Also yes.

From the very moment his eyes settled on the neon sign blinking back at him from the other side of the street, Oswald knew the _Riddle Factory_ wasn't going to offer the kind of entertainment he was looking for.

His first impression was confirmed by the people he found himself surrounded by when he stepped through the door of the old building – not before instructing his chauffeur to wait for him outside, ready to take him back to the warm comfort of Van Dahl manor as soon as he got tired of it. Which, to be fair, was expecting to be very, very soon.

The loud, thrumming beat of the music blaring from the speakers threatened to give him a headache, as did the clashing colours of the patrons' clothes. Men, women and the occasional young kid sporting all kinds of vibrant outfits that settled anywhere on the scale going from tasteless to outright bizarre. The kind of people Oswald wouldn't have hesitated to kick out of his club as punishment for their complete disregard of the dress code. Apparently, the Riddler had no such concerns.

A burly man in a torn denim jacket, a good two feet taller than he was and twice as broad, bumped his shoulder against him with enough force to send the both of them stumbling.

"Hey, what the fu--" the voice died in his throat as he realised just who he had been about to start a fight with.

Oswald didn't need to open his mouth, nor flash the sharp blade hidden in the handle of his cane. A single look was sufficient. He saw a flicker of recognition in the thug's eyes before he hastened to make way for him mumbling something under his breath. Something that sounded a lot like a "Sorry, Mr. Penguin".

Oswald couldn't help but smile to himself. The sheer terror blooming on the faces of the ones who realised all too late who they were meddling with never got old. In any other occasion, he would have gladly given him a new scar to remember him by, but that wasn't the reason for his visit. He dismissed the man with a curt nod of his head. It was impressive just how quick he was to vanish in the crowd.

As he pushed through a sea of moving bodies, the cacophony of their chatting drowned the rhythmic thumping of his cane against the hardwood floor. The warehouse-turned-nightclub was packed beyond its capability. Despite the poor souls who locked eyes with him instantly retreating to let him through with a deferent bow of their head, it took him what felt like an eternity to finally catch a glimpse of the stage located on the far end of the room.

The heavy-looking satin curtains were drawn, hiding whatever was happening on the other side away from curious glances. Oswald only hoped it wouldn't take too long for the show to start. It was, after all, the sole reason he had decided to visit the godforsaken venue. A show of his goodwill in the wake of his and Edward's renewed partnership, that promised to turn a shaky truce in a more solid, trustworthy business relationship.

"Just this once," Ed had insisted. "You won't regret it. What better occasion to show the people of the Narrows that the Penguin is back, stronger than ever?"

Though he had many doubts about the first part, Oswald had had to agree. His hold on the Narrows was weak at best, making it one of the few neighbourhoods of Gotham City that still constituted the weakest link in the iron chain of his empire. Attend one show, make a public appearance, maybe give a little speech, let the people bask in his presence and authority. It seemed easy enough. Granted, he could think of many, many more pleasant ways to spend his Friday evening, but that was a lesson he had learned a long time before – no power without sacrifices. Some of them just so happened to be less gruesome than others.

He only wished the show would begin, already. Quick and painless, perhaps leaving him enough time and energy to read a chapter or two of the book that, much to his chagrin, he had had to leave unfinished on the armchair by the fireplace. Almost as if someone in the backstage had sensed his thoughts, the music slowly faded to a background whisper as the lights dimmed. As if executing a well-rehearsed routine, all the patrons turned around to look at the stage. The anticipation was heavy in the air.

A drum roll, then the curtains were abruptly pulled apart to reveal a familiar figure standing in the half-darkness. The crowd broke out into cheering, which Oswald soon realised was several dozens of different voices chanting Riddler's name, right as the spotlights were turned on. 

"Ladies, gentlemen, riddle lovers of all ages!" He began, and Oswald could nearly _hear_ the self-satisfied grin in the tone of his voice. "Welcome to the Riddle Factory!"

Ed's voice was hardly able to overcome the incessant shouting of his devoted fans. The chanting soon grew discordant, which prompted Ed to clap his hands once. To Oswald's astonishment, the audience fell silent.

"What time is it?"

The crowd roared as one. "Riddle time!"

"That's right," he said, manic grin spreading over his lips. "Without further ado, let's welcome our first contestant! Please give a round of applause for Miss Jackson, former top lieutenant of the fearsome Black Skulls!"

A short music interlude accompanied the entrance of a young woman. Dressed from head to toe in worn-out looking leather and sporting the tattoos that identified her as a member of the infamous if recently disbanded Black Skulls gang, she she strutted to the centre of the stage with an air that spoke of confidence and ill-concealed smugness. From his privileged position, though, Oswald could see the way Ed was looking at her. Like a wildcat eyeing the mouse who had just made the terrible mistake of peaking its head out of its burrow.

"It's so cool to be here with you tonight, Riddler," the contestant quipped, offering him a huge smile as she jumped up on a small podium.

"Likewise," Ed assured her. Another gesture and a huge object was wheeled on stage by one of the Riddler's scantily clad assistants. It didn't take Oswald long to realise what it was, exactly. An old wooden wheel, probably stolen by a dilapidated cabaret or whatever that place was before becoming a hideout for the poor, the violent and the desperate. It was divided in a dozen different-coloured triangles, though from afar he couldn't really tell what each of them contained.

"Are you ready to play?" Ed was asking his first victim.

"I was born ready."

"Very well. You all know the rules: three riddles, if our lucky contestant guesses all three of them correctly, she leaves with with unfathomable riches. If she does not, well..." With that, Ed walked over to the side. The spotlight was trained on him, artificial light catching on his green suit, making it shimmer.

Unlike most of the people watching the performance, Oswald didn't know what the punishment for a wrong guess entailed. Judging from the reactions a mere allusion to it had provoked in the crowd gathered to watch the show, though, it was safe to assume it had to be something very exciting. Or, well, exciting for the kind of people whose idea of entertainment was witnessing a drunken bar fight, anyway.

"First riddle," A brief bout of hesitation – no, a dramatic pause. "I don't have lungs, but I need air. I am not alive, but water kills me. What am I?"

Oswald shook his head with a chuckle. Too easy.

"Fire!" She shouted.

"Correct!"

The second riddle proved to be more challenging, though, which lead to the poor girl struggling to come up with an answer in the short time she had been given to come up with one. She was already sweating, the confident smile she had been sporting during her introduction had turned into a tight-lipped grimace in stark contrast with the grin painted on Riddler's features. A sphynx feeding on the sheer terror of its prey, already knowing they will fail the task and make for a delicious meal after it sunk its claws in them. As it turned out, the comparison wasn't all that far-fetched.

"Candle! It's a candle!" The contestant blurted out seconds before the gong signalling her time was up went off.

Riddler stretched his arms open, gloved hands closed in a tight fist.

"And the answer is..." Another pause, long enough to allow the rumbling drum sound effect to bounce off the walls of the large room, as the entire audience seemed to hold its breath in anticipation. Oswald found himself doing the same, without realising.

Thumbs down. Just like that, the fate of the first contestant was sealed. Someone in the backstage played another sound effect, a sad trumpet that wouldn't have been out of place in a children's morning cartoon.

"Wrong. I'm sorry Miss Jackson," Ed said, with the tone of someone who isn't sorry at all. In fact, Oswald realised, he sounded very much like he was itching to inflict on her whatever punishment would provide a minute or so of sadistic entertainment for his viewers. "Lila, could you please spin the Wheel of Misfortune for me?"

Another one of his assistants – a brunette woman in a ridiculous majorette-insipred outfit – complied with the request. Oswald squinted, trying to make out the words written on the section it landed on, but he couldn't quite read them from the distance. The former Black Skulls member definitely could.

"Aw, shit," he heard her mutter.

As Riddler was quick to announce, she had just earned the dubious privilege of sticking her head in a box full of angry wasps. Oswald cringed at the punishment. He wasn't one to shy away from unusual displays of violence, but this he decided, was simply in poor taste. In his hand, violence was a weapon. A mean to an end. In the Riddler's it seemed to be nothing but yet another gimmick to have a good laugh at the expense of some unfortunate fool who had thought themselves capable of outsmarting him.

The second contestant didn't fare much better, he found himself stumped as early as the first question ("What walks on four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon and three in the evening?" A classic. Alas, it seemed like the desperate-looking middle-aged man hadn't had much time to dedicate to ancient Greek mythology in his life). At the end of the second round, the prize was still intact. The same could not be said for the contestant's kneecaps.

"What do you say, my friends? Up for another round?" Riddler asked, unleashing another roar from the crowd.

Oswald was already considering starting to leave, by now bored by the repetitive scheme of the gameshow, when Ed locked eyes with him. A moment later Riddler was back to addressing his audience, each sentence accompanied by a flourish of theatrical gestures. Oswald absently wondered how long it had taken him to practice them and smile to himself, picturing Ed in front of a full-length mirror repeating each word, each gesture until he perfected them. Until he appeared natural and charismatic and definitely not a fool starving for attention.

"But before that, let me introduce a dear friend of mine who decided to grace us with his presence, tonight. My friends," he announced, removing his bowler hat and tipping it forwards towards the cheering crowd. "Let's give our warmest welcome to Oswald Cobblepot, the Penguin!"

Before he knew it, the lights dimmed on stage and he suddenly found himself under the spotlight. Fuelled by Riddler's bombastic introduction, the audience erupted in a chaos of discordant clapping and whistling, chanting of "Penguin! Penguin! Penguin!" taking over the entire room.

To say Oswald was taken aback by the display of unrestrained excitement at the mere mention of his name would have been an understatement. It was no secret that he wasn't exactly popular in the Narrows – where the rest of the city had more or less willingly bent the knee after Miss Falcone's untimely demise, the slums had been an exception. A land with no leaders, no laws other than the one of the streets. Dog eats dog. At least until the Riddler had made his appearance.

Ed had done a masterful job at harnessing the Narrows' fury and lawless energy, Oswald had to give it to him. And now he was showing him how easily he was able to redirect them wherever he pleased. He wondered if this wasn't his way to show him that he too was capable of building his own tiny empire, with his subjects and his rules, deciding the fate of his people with a thumbs up or down like ancient emperor with his gladiators. He was well aware of his competitive streak, though he strived to keep it hidden under the smiles and the pretence that he had no reason to lower himself to such boring competitions, when his intellect was so obviously, glaringly superior to the one of the people who inhabited that wretched part of the city.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Ed asked.

"To be honest, I was hoping for something more...ah, tasteful," Oswald said, unable to conceal the teasing edge in his voice.

Ed clicked his tongue in mock disappointment. "What a pity! I really thought you would appreciate the show. Then again, you always had finer tastes..." he tapped his chin with a gloved finger as he paced back and forth, pretending to be lost in thought. "Let's see, let's see...ah, but of course! Allow me to change your mind."

Oswald offered him a curt nod. Riddler's smirk grew, if possible, even larger. He always did love a challenge.

"What do you say, ladies and gentlemen? Shall we give Mr. Penguin a show he'll never forget?" More clapping, more shouting, more stomping of feet on the ground. "Very well! Let's welcome our third and last contestant: Mr. Rodgers, former member of the Lo-Boyz!"

Unlike his predecessors, who had taken centre stage with confidence and unfortunately misplaced faith in their own ability to win the game, the last contestant was all but shoved forwards by a pair of muscled thugs emerging from behind the curtains. He looked distraught, blinded by the sudden brightness of the green spotlights, to the point that was up to Ed to lay a not-so-gentle hand on his upper back and steer him towards the podium. Again, it was hard to tell with absolute certainty from where he stood, but Oswald swore he could see dark marks the man's face that may or may not have been bruises on his cheekbone and under his left eye. Seemingly uncaring for the contestant’s discomfort and blatant unwillingness to participate, the crowd showered his entrance with furious clapping much like they had done for the other two unfortunate victims of Riddler's game.

Oswald's features twisted in a tight grimace, halfway between a wild sneer and a displeased frown. No more than two weeks before the little punk had taken advantage of Penguin's unplanned stay at Arkham to sneak its way inside his lieutenants' good graces, bypass the security of one of his safe houses without them suspecting a thing, and make it out of town with a considerable sum of money and firearms. He hadn't hesitated to execute the people responsible for the security breach, and though the bloodshed had provided him with momentary relief and maybe even an ounce or two of satisfaction, he had known his rage wouldn't be quelled until the man was found, brought before him on his knees and shown how the Penguin treated the idiots who dared abuse his hospitality. His men had hunted him down for weeks, searched every disgusting little nook him and cronies used to hang around and had always come back to him empty handed. And to think that he had probably spent those same weeks locked up in the basement of the _Riddle Factory_!

A strange mixture of fury and excitement threatened to overcome him at the sight of the man's face. All of a sudden, he was itching to see what Ed had in store for the spectacular finale of his performance.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," Riddler went on, after making sure his precious contestant wasn't going to try and make a break for it. "Who can suggest me a way to make this last round more interesting?"

A number of different voices rose up from the audience, shouting all kinds of stupid or impossible suggestions at the top of their lungs. Ed pretended to consider some of them, humming to himself as he affected a pensive expression. One by one, however, all the propositions were dismissed, judged to clichéd, too complicated or simply postponed for a future show.

Oswald, in the meantime, was fighting the urge to jostle his way through the people blocking his path to the stage, hoist himself up with the aid of his cane and wrap his bare hands around the bastard's throat until he stopped breathing. Oh, what a wonderful sight his terrified eyes would have made as he paid the ultimate price for his insolence! But no, he was forced to watch Ed play cat and mouse with _his_ prey, for the sake of...showing off? He wasn't really sure.

"Thank you all for your suggestions," Ed said. "But I think I know how to make tonight's show really memorable. Mr. Penguin, care to join me here on stage?"

Oswald's train of thoughts crashed the moment he heard Riddler call his name. He blinked, unsure of what Ed was really asking. Even though he knew he would end up regretting it, one way or another, he let himself blurt out: "Of course."

Looking pleased as punch, Ed nodded towards his assistant, who rushed to show him the way up to the stage, the audience parting to let him through. 

As he extended his hand to help him up the steps, Ed lowered his voice to an almost-whisper. "I'll make it worth your while," he promised.

"You'd better," Oswald retorted through gritted teeth, which only had the effect of coaxing a chuckle out of the other man.

Then, raising his voice back up so everyone could hear him. "The rules are simple. One riddle. Two contestants. The first one to give me the right answer is crowned victorious. The loser is punished accordingly."

Oswald shot a sideway glance to his opponent, who was already trembling in fear. It seemed like he didn't trust his own riddle-solving abilities to get him out of this one alive. That, or the events that had lead him into Riddler's clutches had left him dazed enough to struggle to understand what was going on – only knowing he'd rather be anywhere else, than in close proximity with the man he had betrayed.

Riddler turned his back to the audience to face the two of them. Oswald had the fleeting impression that he winked at him, a moment before he collected himself to utter the riddle with his usual solemnity. A trick of the green-ish lights illuminating the stage, no doubt. "What three words are said too much, meant by few, but wanted by all?"

He had hardly finished speaking that the man was crying out. "I'm sorry! I-- I'm sorry!"

Ed let him, if anything because it was amusing to wonder if he was trying to answer the question or if he really believed he could be spared by simply repeating an insincere apology over and over.

The audience laughed. Oswald would have laughed too, at the sight of who thought he could get away with stealing from the Penguin reduced to a pleading, blabbering mess. He would have, were he not too busy dreading what would happen when Riddler eventually turned to him and asked him to solve the riddle. He knew the answer. He just wasn't sure he could bring himself to say it out loud. It felt too much like an attempt at humiliating him, not unlike the hideous Penguin costume he used to parade around with before their unexpected reconciliation. The thought alone left a sour taste in his mouth.

Ed walked over to him, then. "Mr. Penguin, would you like to try?"

"I love you," he swallowed hard, painfully aware of the implications behind the words. "The answer is 'I love you.'"

He didn't have the time to do or to say any of the million things he suddenly wanted to to at least try and justify his answer, because Riddler had turned away to announce his guess as: "Correct!"

This time, Oswald couldn't hear the cheers over the rumbling of his own blood in his ears. The following minute or so happened in slow motion. Ed gestured for his assistant to spin the wheel, while Rodgers somehow broke through the haze of his panic, trying to escape only to be dragged back to his place by Riddler's thugs who this time stayed around to help keep him still. The wheel stopped spinning, now close enough for Oswald to read the sentence 'AN EYE FOR AN EYE' written in big bold letters against the dark green background.

Then Ed's hand was on his shoulder, shockingly warm even through layers of fabric. "Would you like to do the honours?"

Their eyes met over Oswald's shoulder. For a moment he had a flash of an Ed Nygma for a lifetime ago, clad in his ugly green sweater, hands clasped together in barely restrained excitement as he urged him to slit Galavan's lackey's throat from ear to ear, to take his revenge not only for his own personal pleasure but for his as well.

His thumb caressed the handle of the knife hidden inside his cane. The man was pleading still, staring at the two of them with bloodshot eyes, full of tears. The crowd was silent. Or maybe it wasn't, Oswald couldn't care. The only thing he cared about was Ed's hand, still lingering on him, and the bastard's tear-filled eyes in the moment he realised it was over.

When his blade stabbed through the man's left eye socket and a bloodcurdling scream pierced the air, Oswald allowed himself to believe that the elated smile on Ed's lips was only for him.

****

The backstage of the Riddle Factory was haunted by an uncanny sense of familiarity.

In a way, it reminded Oswald of Ed's old apartment in Grundy Street. The countless bizarre objects cluttering every available surface were different, as were the circumstances that had brought him there, but it was the same organised chaos, the same feeling of disorientation, of not knowing where to look and simultaneously knowing for sure that the owner of that mess would have no hesitation in locating the specific items he needed at any given time. Only the smell didn't quite fit. Much like the rest of the venue, it smelled like dust, humidity, and once-expensive wood and fabric left there to rot, whereas Ed's loft had always smelled clean, too clean even.

It took him a while to locate a bed – well, less of a bed and more of a spare mattress with tattered cotton sheets spread over it – too small for Ed's overly long legs. He was quick to dismiss the sudden pang of guilt that shot through his chest when he remembered the soft bed and warm blankets that awaited him at the manor. Continuing his exploration, his eyes fell on the newspaper spread out on what seemed to be a small desk stuck between a floor lamp and an armchair encumbered with books, as if someone had started reading but then forgot about it as they were forced to attend to more urgent matters. The headline stared mockingly back at him and he was grateful for the way it was folded, which preventing him from seeing the picture printed beneath it.

He didn't realise Ed had been observing him until he heard him speak. "Penguin Learns to Fly. Not very imaginative, is it?" He shook his head in silent judgement of whoever had been tasked with coming up with such a poorly thought-out title. He was shedding the jacket of his obnoxiously green suit, hanging it on a nearby rack, setting his bowler hat down on the first piece of furniture he happened to bumpt into. "I would offer you a seat, but..."

No reason to finish the sentence, the state of the room spoke for itself.

Now that the manic excitement of the gameshow was starting to wash away, his were gradually becoming slower and less practiced, encumbered with something that resembled weariness. Oswald allowed himself to stare, seizing the chance to catch a rare glimpse of the private life of the infamous Riddler, a man he could claim to know better than any of his devoted fans and still sometimes felt like he didn't know at all, before posing the question that begged to be asked.

"What are the terms?"

Ed cast him a puzzled look from over his shoulder. "Terms?"

Subtle cracking of leather gloves when Oswald's grip tightened on the silver handle of his cane. "I'm not a fool, Ed," he scoffed, moving a couple of tentative steps forward, careful not to trip on any of the objects strewn all over the floor. "Sometimes I wonder if in all your brilliance you forget that not all the people you surround yourself with are absolute morons. You invited me here. You showed me the extent of your influence over the Narrows. You let me exact my revenge on that thieving bastard, asking for nothing in exchange. It's clear you're about to lay this place on a silver platter right in front of me and name your price. It's how business works."

"Don't you want to know how I found him?" The question was accompanied by a crooked smile that betrayed just how eager he was to demonstrate his expertise. And yet evasive, in a way that made Oswald's blood boil as he recalled why they had been at each other's throats for months before coming to their current, unstable truce. It had nothing to do with cut brakes and blond librarians and desecrated tombs. It was inevitable. He had just been naïve enough not to see it coming. And it was the reason why he had stared at him unflinching as his body was slowly encased in a giant block of ice and forced himself to remember not just the soft glances and blind loyalty he idealised what felt like a lifetime or two before, but the ugly, the selfish and the conniving as well.

"No."

Ed's smile dropped, replaced by a small frown. His displeasure in having been denied yet another chance to showcase his skills was evident. Good. If they were to negotiate – and that was the reason why Oswald had accepted to visit the Factory in the first place, not to enjoy a night of mindless entertainment, not even to show the people of the Narrows that he had come back from Arkham more powerful and determined than before – he would rather have dealt with the real Ed, stripped of his stage persona and every bit the ruthless logician he had demonstrated he could be. That, at least, he knew how to handle.

"So what is the Narrows worth according to the Riddler? He inquired. "A couple grands? Free access to one of my docks?"

Ed was silent. He didn't confirm, nor deny any of his suppositions. He waited. He wasn't as graceful as to give him a single hint, not even when Oswald quirked one of his eyebrows at him. To him, Oswald realised, it was but yet another one of his riddles. And he would have been damned if he let him play around with him like he did with his subjects at the Factory. 

"A place at the table," he tried, this time more statement than question. Ed's reaction suggested him that he had once again made the right guess.

Ed smiled a toothy grin, not at all unlike the one he had offered him after he had correctly answered his riddle, earlier. Too similar to a particular kind of giddy smile he used to sport back during his days as chief of staff, whenever he knew he had done something incredibly dangerous yet potentially beneficial for Mayor Cobblepot's public image and was just waiting for him to make the discovery, not spoiling the surprise lest he missed the opportunity to watch a full range of emotions pass over his dear friend's features – worry, anger, exasperation, and ultimately triumph. Except this time Oswald didn't know what he should have found appealing about his proposition, exactly.

"To start with, yes," Ed said. "Though I was thinking of something more along the lines of a personal advisor. A right-hand man, as it were. So it wouldn't exactly be a seat at the table, rather a place behind the throne."

"I don't need an advisor." Oswald scoffed, finding the very idea preposterous. "I'll have you know have everything under control, thank you very much."

"You'll forgive me if I don't believe you," the twitch of his head could have been mistaken for a mere tic, but it surely wasn't accidental how he tilted it in the direction of that damned newspaper that, though Oswald couldn't really see, showcased a picture of him as he was helped off that maniac Valeska's blimp by the police, with a crowd of curious Gothamites gathered around to witness the first flying penguin.

Shame mixed with rage and frustration coiled deep within his chest. "That-- that was a calculated risk. A mistake that won't be repeated," seeing Ed open his mouth to reply, he quickly added: "Your concern is much appreciated, but dismissed."

_Things have changed_ , was what he wanted to say but but his tongue before his words could be mistaken for sentimentalism.

It made perfect sense for him to appoint an assistant when he had stepped on the podium, dazed by the flashes of the cameras and the lingering sense of shock for his unexpected victory. No-one would have batted an eye if the new mayor decided to rely on a trusted assistant to navigate the new, unknown world of politics riddled with intangible traps and faux pas liable of endangering his career before it even began. But this was different. Ed wasn't offering to accompany him on one of the many social calls he had had to pay during his short tenure, nor one of the gala dinners he had had to attend together with Gotham's most wealthy and influential. This was the ugly face of the coin, the corruption that hid behind the surface, anything morbid and rotten and delightfully violent the city had to offer. It was the world he had been born and raised in – his natural habitat as someone with an irritating fondness for bird puns and analogies might have called it. And as much as Ed liked to flaunt his newly found charisma, he had yet to learn the rules of the underworld. Having him of all people standing beside his chair, whispering suggestions in his ear as he dealt with the other gang leaders would have been a blatant display of weakness he could not afford.

Even still, the disappointed expression on the other man's face caused him to feel a pang of something very similar to guilt, or worse, regret.

"However, I reckon you're good with numbers," he went on, not bothering to hide the sardonic sneer pulling at the corner of his lips. "My accountant has greatly disappointed me, so much so that I had to tell him not to show his face in any of my territories ever again, or else. The job is yours, if you want it."

All of a sudden, the room was filled with a sound Oswald hadn't heard in a long time. He registered it as something familiar, first, yet distant and somewhat bittersweet before he finally recognised it. Ed was laughing. Not a small, restrained chuckle, but a full-blown fit of laughter that bounced off the walls reminding him of a time long gone. A simpler time.

"You're impossible, Oswald," Ed said, still struggling to catch his breath. "In a good way, mind you. Takes one to know one, after all."

Faced with such a genuine display of hilarity, Oswald did the most dangerous thing he had allowed himself to do yet: he smiled back. "Figured you'd refuse. I understand, I do. My empire is vast, it would be a full-time job. A successful showman such as yourself wouldn't dream of leaving his devoted fans hanging."

"Oh please! You're far smarter than that, Oswald. If you really do think I'd be satisfied with where I am right now, then you don't know me at all." Ed leaned back against the old wooden vanity propped up against the wall behind him – Oswald hadn't noticed right away, but the mirror was covered by a length of black cloth to prevent it from reflecting the room in its chaotic glory. Or, more likely, to keep it from showing the reflection of the man standing in front of it, with his arms crossed to his chest and something between contempt and disgust on his features. "Do you think this is what I wanted when I set off to make a name for myself? To entertain a crowd of uneducated idiots? Oh, it's fun at first, not so much after a couple dozens shows, when it becomes abundantly clear that none of them will ever put up a decent challenge. It's easy once you get to know them, their names, their interests, their families. Too easy. At the end of the day, when they come back from whatever illicit activities they have taken part in to raise a few bucks, all they want is..."

" _Panem et circenses_?"

"Precisely," a flicker of amusement behind the thick lenses his glasses. "Funny how well an expression coined by a dead poet from a long-gone civilisation can still apply to modern-day Gotham."

Oswald wouldn't have called it funny. Depressing, more like. "My point still stands. What makes you think I need a right-hand man, or -- or whatever you want to call it? And that I would take you, of all people? What do you bring to the table," He held up a hand to stop Ed, who had already opened his mouth to reply. "Besides your fans and your irritating penchant for snooping through my business?"

"Remember what you told me at the pier?"

Oswald's half smile ultimately vanished at the mention of the pier. Were it up to him, he would already have used all of his resources and connections to have that wretched place erased from the map. "I'm afraid you'll need to be more specific."

"The last time," Ed clarified. "You said you trusted me."

"I do. But this is--"

"Then trust me when I say you'll be stronger with me by your side."

The words hung heavy between them.

It was the most explicit Ed had been ever since their unlikely alliance had managed to get rid of the last of the Falcone family and return the city to its rightful owner. They had been dancing around each other for months, polite and detached during business meetings, casting furtive glances in each other's direction when they knew the other wasn't paying attention, bantering amicably though with their respective weapons within arm's reach. It was the closest they had ever been since the mayoral campaign, Ed even seemed to have regained the eagerness to impress him he had abandoned along the way, traded it with hate and resentment instead

Oswald hadn't dared to let himself hope. He still didn't. But the hopeless romantic in him couldn't help but see in the events that had just transpired for all of the Narrows to see, a dramatic if slightly exaggerated declaration of intent. And warning, not for him but for whoever was watching, to show any enemy that might have been lurking in the crowd what they could be now that their feud was water under the bridge. Vicious. Lethal. Unstoppable.

His silence was making Ed restless. He had begun fidgeting with the knot of his tie, alternating between looking at him in the eyes and pretending to find something extremely interesting in the clutter surrounding them. It was nice to see him on edge for once, Oswald thought. Eventually, the wait proved too much for him to handle.

"How's Martin?"

"Fine. He's fine," Oswald sighed, though he couldn't deny Ed's concern sounded genuine. He was about to tell him that Martin had asked about him too, quite insistently at that, when he remember why he was there. And sure as hell it wasn't to play the happy family with hid former best friend turned nemesis and his protégé. "You're digressing."

Ed cleared his throat, nervousness bleeding through. "I suppose I am," he conceded. "I just wanted you to know I...Three words, said too much--"

Oswald interrupted him before he could finish. "Meant by few and wanted by all, yes. I remember."

"Not very imaginative, I know. I had to make sure you'd know the right answer," Ed said, as a way of justification.

He almost wanted to tell him that it was too late. That he had no right to play games with his heart, not after he broke it in a million pieces and came back for him pretending nothing of the sort had ever happened. He looked away, trying to find something in the mess surrounding them to fix his gaze upon as he fruitlessly attempted to steady his breath. Ed must have noticed. There was hardly ever something he didn't notice. Oswald surprised himself in finding the thought in equal measure endearing and infuriating.

When he gathered enough courage to look back at him, he found that Ed had stepped towards him but only halfway. He had made an aborted movement to reach for him, in what in his head was probably a gesture that would have persuaded him to stay, to listen, even if for the time being he struggled to find the right words. He hesitated, with his arm already outstretched.

"Oswald..."

His hand hovered in the air between them, craving and at the same time dreading to touch. With a desperate burst of faith that he so dearly hoped wasn't misplaced – he had misinterpreted too many signals in the past to make the prospect of making the first move anything other than terrifying – Oswald took it and held it against his own heart. The effect, he reasoned only when it was too late, was going to be ruined by too many layers of fabric in the way, preventing Ed from feeling just how fast his heart was beating. But it didn't seem to matter. Ed was looking at him with his mouth open, an expression that could only be described as _smitten_ painted all over his features.

The first press of his lips against Ed's was glorious. The little gasp that Ed let out against his mouth before kissing him back made him bolder, made him reckless, made him want to toss all of his fears to the wind and just take what he wanted, like he had always promised himself he would be able to do one day. His cane to fell to the ground with a dull thud even as his fingers tangled in his dark hair calling for all of his self-control to keep himself from pulling too hard, even though something in the way Ed's body shivered against him told him that maybe he wouldn't have minded.

Feeling his lungs aching for air but unwilling to let go of him just yet, Oswald pressed his forehead against Ed's, uncaring if the height difference made it somewhat awkward and forced the other man to bend slightly at the knees to make it more comfortable for the both of them. The feeling of Ed's uneven breathing against his skin, his arms locked tight around his middle, the way he broke into a nervous but happy chuckle prompted a warm sensation to start spreading in his gut. It was all too much and not enough. Ed's open palm was still resting against his chest and now his heart was rushing so fast that Oswald was positive he could feel it, layers of clothes or no layers of clothes in the way.

They kissed again, enough times for him to lose count, until they ran out of breath once more. Almost better than the electrifying feeling of his lips and tongue moving against his was the sight of Ed's flushed cheekbones, of his pupils dilated behind his glasses with desire and god knew what else when he pulled back. They locked eyes and Oswald instantly knew they were thinking the same thing.

Gotham was theirs for the taking.


End file.
